


Able Hands Will Make Fast Friends

by Azzandra



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Community: falloutkinkmeme, F/F, far harbor spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 21:05:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7190426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mariner is the Sole Survivor's type. They have a good time together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Able Hands Will Make Fast Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [prompt](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/7011.html?thread=19707235#t19707235) on the kink meme.

Phil unloaded the bag with the tools, and the Mariner picked through them one by one with an assessing glint. Phil had looked them over as well, of course, and had been pleased at the sight of the Pelmen's logo, which always boded well for quality, but she had not had time to test them out or inspect them more thoroughly. Mostly she'd legged it out of the tannery before more ghouls could come along.  
  
The Mariner nodded in approval.  
  
"A fair bit of luck running into you," the Mariner said, and pushed a box of caps into Phil's hands. "Here's your reward, well earned. And now to work on the Hull!"  
  
That was Phil's cue to leave, so she wandered back out of the Mariner's place and onto the dock, the box grasped in her hands and the warm tingle of the Mariner's approval running up and down her spine.  
  
Nick took a drag of the cigarette and smiled a bit at the look on Phil's face. He waited, the very image of patience, for Phil to snap out of her stupor.  
  
"Nick, I think she's my type," Phil blurted out suddenly.  
  
"Doll, anyone who's a type at all is your type," Nick replied, still amused. "Which one is she?"  
  
"The kind that knows power tools," Phil replied, and then frowned thoughtfully. "There's a joke about jackhammering in there, hold on..."  
  
Nick gave long-suffering sigh, but he let Phil try to find it.

* * *

When all was said and done-- _all_ of it, the Hull, the Island, and the Red Death at the end--the Mariner invited Phil over for drinks. Phil brought the alcohol, and the Mariner closed up her workshop, even pulling down some blinds over the broken window, which Phil appreciated because there was only so much fresh Maine air she could take before keeling over. Literally, in some circumstances.  
  
The Mariner was perfectly alert as she poured herself exactly one finger's width of bourbon, and would conceivably remain fully alert if that was how she drank. Phil was somewhat entertained by this; she figured the Mariner would drink more like a sailor.  
  
But Phil poured herself a similarly modest amount, and did not comment on it.  
  
"It still feels wrong to have lied," the Mariner said, sitting stiffly on the edge of her bed as she had given Phil her only chair. "Doesn't it bother you?"  
  
"Nah, it doesn't matter," Phil replied.  
  
She still felt mildly bad about laughing the way she did when they came across the Red Death, but after the grim challenges the Island had thrown her way, unraveling another mystery and discovering something so ridiculous at the bottom of it had lifted her spirits.  
  
"Whatever really happened today," Phil said, "in a couple of years the story would have been unrecognizable anyway. At least this way, we removed a peril to traffic, they can have their story, _and_ we didn't have to risk life and limb for it. Win-win all around."  
  
The Mariner's jaw clenched, and Phil could see the thoughts tick one by one behind her eyes, making their way towards acceptance.  
  
"I suppose you're right," the Mariner said eventually, and mechanically raised her glass to her lips. She didn't sound much more reassured, though.  
  
Phil sighed and put her own glass down, pulling her chair closer until she was knee to knee with the Mariner. Then she plucked the glass out of the Mariner's hand as well, and put it aside. She grasped the Mariner's hands.  
  
"Listen," Phil said, "since coming here I've had to discover some nasty things. Some... some very unpleasant stuff, which I can't share with anyone because it would have very bad consequences for too many people on the Island. You know?"  
  
The Mariner nodded slowly.  
  
"So this thing, with the Red Death," Phil continued, "it's kinda kids stuff by comparison. Or like--a fisherman's tall-tales. You people still got those, right? _I once caught a fish thiiiiis big!_ "  
  
Phil opened her arms and gestured dramatically, pitching her voice so it sounded gruff and silly.  
  
" _Took me three days to reel it in! And before I could take a picture with it, it struggled out of my arms and jumped back in the lake!_ " she continued, waving her arms." _I'll find that monster again one day! Mark my words!_ "  
  
The Mariner cracked up laughing, and rubbed at her face to hide it. Oil and grime was smeared all over her face, because she apparently did not take great care when she was fixing things. There was a perfect black fingerprint right on the side of her nose, in fact, and it made Phil smile.  
  
Phil remembered when her own father would accidentally get some spot on his face and fussily rub it off with a handkerchief. He'd been a handyman by trade as well, but he'd worked maintenance for a high-class apartment building, and could never stand to look messy around the tenants. They already looked down on him and his family--in a sometimes literal sense since they lived in the basement.  
  
In a swell of affection, Phil reached into her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief; not quite as clean as her father's had been, but Phil reached out, cupping the Mariner's face, and rubbed a particularly large oil stain off her cheek.  
  
"If my dad saw you right now, he'd march you to the nearest sink to wash your face," Phil said.  
  
"My work can get messy," the Mariner replied.  
  
"I know," Phil grinned. "The best kind of work often does. I just want to see a bit more of your face."  
  
The Mariner opened her mouth, then closed it again.  
  
"Hold on for a moment," she said, and got up.

She opened the door and left the workshop. Phil remained waiting, a bit puzzled and unsure. She stuffed her dirty handkerchief back in her pocket and took a swig of her bourbon, to tamp down on her anxiety. Minutes passed, enough that Phil started to wonder if she ought to go looking for the Mariner.  
  
The Mariner returned however, her hat clutched in her hand and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Phil did a doubletake at her face, scrubbed clean. There was a redness to the Mariner's cheeks, evident even under the large glasses she wore, and Phil realized it wasn't just from how hard she'd had to scrub her skin to slough off the grime.  
  
The Mariner took her seat back on the bed, casting aside her hat and casting about her gaze.  
  
"Well, not much to look at even without the grime," the Mariner said, staring at a point over Phil's shoulder.  
  
A slow smile spread over Phil's face.  
  
"Oh, but I'm enjoying the looking quite a bit," Phil replied, leaning forward just slightly.  
  
"...Ah." The Mariner blinked, her gaze shifting to Phil, and they locked eyes for a few moments. They looked at each other, reassuring themselves they were on the same wavelength, and then the Mariner suddenly surged forward, her glasses clacking against Phil's as she caught Phil's mouth in a kiss.  
  
Phil made a startled sound, and they both flinched back from each other, their hands going to their glasses.  
  
"I'm sorry, that was terrible," the Mariner apologized, clutching her frames. Phil took off her glasses and inspected them. "I didn't scratch them, did I?"  
  
"They're fine," Phil said, throwing them aside on the table, a bit too carelessly. "Yours?"  
  
"They're..." the Mariner took them off and folded them closed, sighing. "They're undamaged. I'm so sorry."  
  
Phil gently took the glasses from her hands and set them aside.  
  
"It's fine," she said, voice soft.  
  
"I wouldn't blame you if you--" the Mariner cut off as Phil rose from her chair and raised one knee to plant it besides her on the bed. "What're you--"  
  
The Mariner found herself pushed back, and Phil straddled her lap, catching the Mariner's face between her hands. Her fingers were warm and calloused, and Phil's thumb rubbed roughly over the Mariner's lips, making her gasp.  
  
The lantern was behind Phil, so her face was cast in shadow, but the Mariner could feel her gaze, especially this close, and her heat.  
  
"If you wanna make it up to me, I can think of a few things," Phil said in a low purr.  
  
The Mariner's breath hitched, her heart fluttering madly.  
  
"Okay," the Mariner managed to say, her voice a bit high, before Phil devoured her with a kiss.  
  
It wasn't hurried, like the Mariner's attempt, but it was deep, and wet, and there was still a burn of alcohol to Phil's mouth, ratcheting up the heat between them. The Mariner grasped at Phil, hands roving down her back and lower. Then her fingers sank in the underside of Phil's thighs to pull her closer, press her tighter against the Mariner's body. The denim of her pants was rough, but the flesh underneath was hot and yielding.  
  
The Mariner found herself pushed down on her back on the bed, as Phil clambered over her. The heels of Phil's hands were pushing down against the Mariner's shoulder, pinning her in place in a way that made heat suffuse her body and then pool between her legs. She unconsciously rubbed her thighs together, wound ever tighter by the feeling of Phil's weight against her.  
  
Phil grinned in the half-light of the room, only her teeth and the whites of her eyes visible to the Mariner. But it was a predatory expression, hungry and alive in a way that made the Mariner feel alive as well.

There was a pop as Phil unbuttoned one strap of the Mariner's overalls, then the other. There was slightly longer of a pause at the Mariner's belt, but that one opened at the back.  
  
"Let's me get that," the Mariner said, arching her back so she could squeeze her fingers underneath and take the belt off.  
  
Phil shrugged, and discarded her coat, throwing it to the floor. Then in the same smooth motion, without even a hesitation, she took off her shirt as well, stripping down to her bra.  
  
_Then_ she took off her bra, leaving the Mariner slack-jawed and holding out her belt because she briefly forgot what she was going to do with it. Phil very helpfully took the belt from her hand and threw it to the floor. It clanked loudly, as the content of its pouches his the floorboards.  
  
Phil grinned down at the Mariner.  
  
"Are you going to need those pants?" Phil asked saucily.  
  
The Mariner responded swiftly, by rolling Phil over on the bed, and she yelped in surprise as she ended up flat on her back, her legs still tangled around the Mariner. The Mariner was quite pleased with this position; the warm yellow light of the lantern fell over Phil's torso, bringing out all the warm golden-brown shades of her skin, casting every muscle and curve of her body in soft tones. The Mariner's hand smoothed over the plane of Phil's abdomen, skimmed fingertips at the edges of her stretch marks, and slid a palm over one of Phil's breasts. The nipple pebbled against the Mariner's palm, and she leaned down to take the other one in her mouth, laving it once with her tongue and then sucking it until it hardened as well.  
  
Phil moaned, her hand slipping at the nape of the Mariner's neck, encouraging. Her breaths came faster, and her legs tightened around the Mariner.  
  
The Mariner mouthed at Phil's breasts; impossibly soft and smooth, and spread beneath her at the mercy of her ministrations. There was nothing difficult or stubborn or dangerous here, a far cry from everything the Mariner had to handle every day. She felt she could sink into this, like swimming in warm waters without fear, and she kissed her way up to Phil's neck until she felt the flutter of a pulse beneath her lips. She flattened her mouth against it, and sucked.  
  
Phil arched up into the Mariner--a groan, a desperate flash of movement as Phil groped for the hem of the Mariner's shirt to find skin. She managed to slip her hand underneath only to find an undershirt, and she groaned in frustration the second time. But the Mariner only gave a short huff of laughter. The sea got cold, she wouldn't apologize for that.  
  
Instead she sat up and stripped off her excess clothing, being a bit more careful than Phil as she aimed her sweater and undershirt for the chair, but a bit more sloppy as she tripped her way out of her boots and nearly tangled herself in her own overalls trying to take them off.  
  
Phil was more graceful. She unlaced each of her boots with one tug, and toed them off to have them fall to the floor. But when her hands went to the buttons of her pants, the Mariner stopped her.  
  
"Let me do that," she requested shakily, and Phil raised an eyebrow but allowed it and didn't ask.  
  
The Mariner wouldn't have known how to explain it either, but it was a little like opening a present, and a little like the memory of her first fumbling sexual experiences, slipping her hand into a girl's pants and trying to find her way. Those first few times, it had been terrifying, like the first time out at sea during a storm. Now it was just invigorating, like racing the storm back to port. She'd never crashed against the shore once.

She knelt on the bed, scooted up alongside Phil, and leaned down to kiss her. It was sweeter this time, and more lingering as they learned one another. Phil's touches were trails of lightning along the Mariner's skin, filling her with tingling excitement. The Mariner trailed kisses along Phil's jaw, dragged kisses down the column of her neck, settled, humming, in the crook of her shoulder. Her hands came down to Phil's pants, fumbling the button open, pushing the zipper down, and then she slipped one hand into Phil's underwear, delving into the expectant heat.  
  
Phil's legs spread open, her breaths turning into pleading whimpers. She whispered a curse just as the Mariner dipped her fingers into her to slick them, and when they dragged slowly upward, rubbing slowly against the most sensitive part of her, Phil's back arched almost completely off the bed, and she keened.  
  
The Mariner rolled on top of Phil, pinning her down with her body, and she tangled one hand in Phil's dark hair even as her other worked between Phil's legs. The Mariner had always been good with her hands; her mouth was not always the most clever, but oh, her hands certainly were. Slow and thorough, she rubbed and teased, applying pressure, and taking it away in turns.  
  
Phil squirmed, and clung to the Mariner, making delicate sounds of pleasure. They held each other close, with that hand between them, forehead to forehead, legs tangled, their breaths mingled together. Phil's hips twitched into the touch, and the Mariner's hips twitched in sympathy, and there was nothing but the sound of jagged panting, the slick work of the Mariner's fingers, and the squeaks of the bed.  
  
That first orgasm was squeezed out of Phil just like that, with the sure work of the Mariner's hands, and when she came, it was with a keening groan and a shudder. The Mariner's hand was tired, and getting chafed from rubbing under Phil's clothing, but she continued stroking until there was not an ounce left to stroke for, and she watched Phil's face raptly as she did.  
  
When it was over, Phil tapped the Mariner's forearm to stop, and the Mariner obliged. Then Phil finally wriggled out of her pants and underwear, discarding them with as much care as she did the rest of her clothes.  
  
The Mariner still had her own underwear on, but it was soaked, embarrassingly so. Phil got a wicked glint in her eyes as she hooked the Mariner's panties and pulled them straight down and off. The Mariner had a moment of self-consciousness, a brief instinct to pull her legs together and hide herself, but then Phil had her by the legs, and settled herself between the Mariner's thighs.  
  
She planted a first kiss against the inside of the Mariner's knee, and then laughed.  
  
"What?" the Mariner asked, a bit defensively. She propped herself up on her elbows to look at Phil.  
  
"Salty," Phil replied. "It's just very thematic."  
  
The Mariner gave her an unamused, flat look.  
  
"I'll kick you," she warned in a deadpan, making Phil laugh again.  
  
"Down, sailor," Phil replied, before applying her mouth to the inside of the Mariner's thigh.

The Mariner flopped back down on her back, looking to the ceiling. When she couldn't see it, the hot, wet trail of Phil's mouth up along her thighs felt more intense. Phil moved at her own pace, lingering against some spots, or switching from one leg to another unexpectedly.  
  
The Mariner tried to stay as still as possible, eyes screwed tightly shut, her heart beating wildly the closer Phil got. When Phil's mouth reached the juncture of her legs, the Mariner's toes curled in anticipation. Phil spread her open and laved her folds just once, and the Mariner felt the flat of Phil's tongue like a searing wave, sending ripples of heat and tingling pleasure spreading throughout her body. The Mariner cursed, harder than she ever did even alone at sea.  
  
She scrambled for purchase as everything turned more intense than she expected, until Phil's hand found hers and their fingers laced together. The Mariner concentrated on this point of contact. Phil, undaunted by the iron grip on her hand, pressed her mouth against the sensitive flesh, teased it with lips and tongue; experimentally, at first, leisurely licking or sucking to see what worked best.  
  
The Mariner was not as vocal as Phil. She was more given to quiet gasps. But her body moved of its own accord, hips rolling, and twitching, back arching, as she chased every sensation restlessly. Phil's grip against her hip did nothing much to stop her from moving, but Phil found her pace eventually, and her mouth moved surely between the Mariner's legs.  
  
Everything melted away for the Mariner except for the building, bubbling heat of pleasure. She ground against Phil's face, need turning to _pressing_ need, and then to a mindless hunger that she felt in her entire body instead of her gut. Phil's hand against her hip was hard and unyielding, but it only contributed to this.  
  
The Mariner made a senseless sound, pleading and frustration rolled into one, and Phil's pace quickened. Heat built to incandescence in the Mariner's body, blinding white as it rolled over her, fizzling in every cell and filling every inch of her.  
  
The tipping point passed, it drained out of her slowly, ebbing away, but pleasure still lingered against her insides even after she came, and the Mariner stilled against the mattress, tired and breathing heavily.  
  
Phil extricated herself from between the Mariner's legs, and stretched herself out next to her, laying on her side.  
  
The Mariner, coming back to her senses slowly, could see from the corner of her eye the grin on Phil's face.  
  
"What?" the Mariner asked, squinting at her suspiciously.  
  
"Nothing," Phil shrugged. "You're just very cute when you're all tuckered out."  
  
The Mariner scoffed.  
  
"I'll show you tuckered out," she said, and in a few minutes, when she managed to catch her breath again, she made good on that threat.

* * *

Phil had to stifle a yawn as she walked into the Last Plank the next day.  
  
Nick was sitting in a corner, a cigarette in his hand, and the establishment cat winding between his legs, purring loudly. He was the only one there, besides Mitch; the usual clientele was too hung over at this time of day.  
  
"Done 'discussing power tools'?" Nick asked.  
  
"For now," Phil replied, sitting herself down across from Nick. "We're going to be... looking at some new ranges next time. Right tools for the right job, that kind of thing." She waggled her eyebrows.  
  
"Sure, doll," Nick said, snorting in amusement as he stubbed out his cigarette. "Whatever gets your engine revving."


End file.
